Friday, October 30, 2015

Monday, October 26, 2015

I realized that I loved her when I dropped to my knees and kissed her belly button. She might have been in the kitchen, she might have been addressing an assembly at the UN, she might have been in heaven, I don’t remember. All I remember for certain is how elegantly she was dressed when she was naked.

There is nothing better than when she turns around to put her blouse back on in the morning. She wouldn’t do that if I wasn’t here. So pretend that I am not here. But please be careful that I don’t disappear until you do.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Dear X,

I was told that he was an extraordinary prolific songwriter and that he had written 500 songs. Each song was about 3 minutes long and so they were collectively about 1500 minutes, or 25 hours. Last week I had so much work to do that I put a copy of his songs in my stereo and listened to them continuously. By Thursday, I had worked 25 hours.

I have misgivings about a photograph I took of a window display. It was striking: a series of golden skulls with sport sunglasses, and below a copy of Dante, a crawling spider and a pair of reading glasses. Reflected in the window was a passing truck, a series of oak trees, and a cream and brick school building. I didn’t create the display and I wasn’t responsible for the view reflected in the window. What was I? I was the only thing you couldn’t see in the photograph.

Thursday, October 08, 2015

The first man on earth must have been a blond. Working outside all day long will do that to your hair. And there was no inside then. My grandmother, who worked on a farm, was also blonde until the day she died. And until that day, she worked hard with the cattle and the horses and had sinewy muscles of steel. At night she would drink barley wine and dye her hair grey. She wasn’t my real grandmother. Yet her hair was as beautiful as her muscles and my lies.

Sunday, October 04, 2015

Dear X,

Today I became familiar with the Chinese Banjo. Familiar isn’t really the right word – I read the words in a manual: Chinese Banjo. I don’t want to explore this too much, because it might be a misprint, or a made-up term, or Chinese banjos might be extinct. They might no longer exist in China or be made in China. They might have one string. They might sound terrible in a Chinese Bluegrass band in China. There may be no Chinese Bluegrass bands in China. I might be dreaming. You might not be reading this. You might be writing this to me and I can’t quite make out the words.

These are all the things that I don’t want to discover, or think about, or know. Here’s all I want to think about and know: Chinese Banjo.